


It's About Control

by dCryptid



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Impact Play, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, still bad at tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-26
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-26 13:19:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1689782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dCryptid/pseuds/dCryptid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Sit up straight,” commanded an unyielding female voice, and Steve jumped to comply, straightening his back into a seated mockery of a soldier’s posture and placing his clenched hands between his spread knees.</p><p>He could hear the sound of heels clicking over to where he sat, coming to halt just inches in front of him, between his splayed legs. He could feel the radiating heat of her body against his bare calves and had to suppress a whimper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's About Control

**Author's Note:**

> Forewarning: I did my research, but I know pretty much squat about the world of professional BDSM. I know that what I have depicted here is not accurate to reality, but hey, fantasy universe. Hopefully I wasn't too far off the mark.

               Steve approached the door of the tall, narrow building with a slight hint of nervousness to his walk, his hands jammed deep in the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie in order to hide their trembling. The door was nondescript, nonthreatening, but his knowledge of what was behind it made his heart jump in his chest.

               He removed his left hand from his pocket to check his watch. 2:56 – he was fractionally early. Just as he had been told to be.

               The door creaked gently as he pushed it open, old hinges protesting against the motion. He opened it barely wide enough to fit his broad shoulders through, and shoved it closed as soon as he was inside.

               The small, windowless room beyond the door was done up like a rather plain lobby area, with a couch against the wall to Steve’s right and a potted plant in the corner. There was a desk, also nondescript, and a blonde girl sitting behind it, her hands resting on the keyboard of a sleek laptop – a different girl than the tall brunette who had been staffing the desk on Steve’s previous visits. She was looking up at him, having obviously been alerted by the sound of the door.

               “Do you have an appointment?” she asked in a firm voice, and Steve was grateful for the aviator sunglasses that shielded his eyes from her piercing stare.

               “Three o’clock” he said in a low voice, shoving his hands farther into his hoodie pocket. “With Evana.”

               “ _Mistress_ Evana,” the blonde clarified sternly, and Steve could only hope that his sunglasses also partially covered the hot blush that rose in his cheeks.

               “Y-yes, of course, Mistress Evana,” he stuttered. “Sorry.”

               The blonde squinted at him, but didn’t say anything, instead turning back to her computer and tapping at the keys. “She’s ready for you,” she informed him after a brief moment. “Room eleven. You know the way?”

               “Yes. Thank you.” Steve headed for the hallway at the back of the small lobby, feeling the blonde’s eyes on his back until the moment he pushed through the hanging curtain that led to the rest of the house.

               The hallway was long and narrow, painted white with dark wooden doors lining each side at long intervals. Each door bore a number, and in effect the whole thing looked much like a hotel. Steve quickly padded down the hallway to the second-to-last door, which was marked with a pair of small brass number ones.

               This door didn’t creak when he opened it, and he was grateful – his heart was high in his throat already and he feared that anything would send him over the edge at this point. The room beyond the door followed the trend – nondescript, bordering on plain, featuring a small round table and three chairs. There were two doors other than the one Steve had entered from, one directly across from him, the other on the adjacent wall.

               Steve headed immediately for the side door – Mistress Evana’s instructions had been impeccably clear. _There will be no lead-up this time,_ she had written. _Prepare yourself per usual, then go into the dungeon and wait. If you are not ready, you know what the consequences are._

               The side door revealed a bathroom – sink, shower, toilet. Steve immediately began to strip, carefully folding his clothing and setting it on the small stool beside the pedestal sink, placing his sunglasses and watch on top. He turned on the shower and attempted to use the toilet while the water heated up, but the jangling of his nerves had apparently put a block on his bladder. He climbed into the shower and began to wash himself with the speed and efficiency of the soldier that he was, lathering and rinsing his broad chest, shoulders, thighs, and genitalia, though he forwent washing his hair in anticipation of the apparel he was about to don.

               He stepped from the shower, grateful for the thick bath mat, and began to dry himself with the towel hanging on the bar by the toilet, being careful to remove every drop of water – Mistress Evana would not appreciate any oversight. Once dry, he carefully rehung the towel on the bar and turned his attention to the two items hanging next to it – a black leather hood and fitted knee-length shorts.

               He’d specifically requested the hood on his first visit to the House, in an attempt to preserve some sense of anonymity. In his stumblings into the world of BDSM, he’d learned that though it was becoming more widely accepted in the modern era, there was still a strong negative stigma attached to it – dirty, depraved, sick, unnatural, disturbed. It was not the kind of thing that Captain America, America’s perfect hero, could ever be caught engaging in.

               But he’d been curious, too curious to resist, and so had made the best arrangements that he could to hide his identity from even his Domme. The hood was one part; the sweatshirt and aviator sunglasses were another. It wasn’t foolproof, and he knew it, but the risk was a necessary part of getting what he needed here at the House.

               He wriggled into the tight shorts, which cut off just above the knee, and did up the side zipper. They were comfortably-uncomfortably snug, cupping his ass and cock in a way that left absolutely nothing to the imagination while still keeping him firmly covered and restrained. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror over the sink and blushed fiercely, ducking his head and looking away.

               This wasn’t his first visit to the House, not by a long shot – he’d be coming for several months, with varying levels of success. The first Domme he’d wound up with hadn’t worked out well – his hardened soldier’s body could barely feel the punishment she’d laid on him, and embarrassment had stopped him from attempting to schedule another appointment for several weeks. When he finally got up the courage to call and request someone different, the new Domme hadn’t worked out much better, having been fascinated by his superhuman physique, and the session took a much different path than what Steve itched for. Finally, he’d gotten up the courage to request the hardest hitter they had – the girl on the phone had snickered at his choice of words – and made his third appointment with Mistress Evana.

               His weekly sessions for the past month were evidence that she was working out perfectly.

               He exited the bathroom into the small receiving room with the hood in one hand. It was still empty, and the clock on the wall noted the time as being 3:08. Evana couldn’t be more than a couple minutes from making her entrance.

               Steve squared himself in front of the second door and took a deep breath, gripping the hood tightly in his hand. The feeling of the leather against his palm helped to soothe him, and he opened the door to the dungeon.

               The room was dim, but not dark, and impeccably neat – the rough stone-veneer walls were lined with industrial cabinets and various bits of furniture. There was a complex system of metal hooks and rings drilled into the ceiling, and situated directly below, in the dead center of the room, was a single plain wooden chair.

               Steve crossed to the chair, his bare feet making no sound on the tiles, and settled into it, facing the door he had just entered from. He wasted no time slipping the hood over his face – it covered his eyes completely, blocking out the faint light in the room, and the sudden blackness was a comfort. He adjusted it with the ties in the back, making sure it was snug, and settled back into the chair to wait.

               Several minutes passed, and Steve was gradually aware of his sense of hearing sharpening as grew accustomed to having his eyes covered. Distantly, through the walls, he could hear faint noises – voices and cries and the meaty sound of flesh being struck – but there was no sound in his dungeon aside from his own heavy breathing.

               He shifted in the chair, licking his lips nervously, glad that the hood left his mouth uncovered. He slouched forward, trying to get comfortable in the unforgiving chair, when the unmistakable sound of the door to the dungeon opening reached his ears.

               “Sit up straight,” commanded an unyielding female voice, and Steve jumped to comply, straightening his back into a seated mockery of a soldier’s posture and placing his clenched hands between his spread knees.

               He could hear the sound of heels clicking over to where he sat, coming to halt just inches in front of him, between his splayed legs. He could feel the radiating heat of her body against his bare calves and had to suppress a whimper.

               “What an indecent posture,” Evana murmured, though her tone was not necessarily disapproving. Steve had never seen her face – the mask that preserved his identity also kept her looks a secret – but he knew she was tall, her voice coming from high above him when he was seated. From their sessions he had come to guess that she was an inch or two taller than him in her heels, which still left her impressively tall without them.

               “Are you ready for today’s session?” Evana asked, her tone authoritative.

               “Yes, Mistress,” Steve replied humbly.

               “Is there anything you would like me to know before we get started?”

               “No, Mistress.”

               She made a thoughtful noise. “Then let us begin,” she said. “Sit still.”

               Steve heard her cross to one of the cabinets against the wall, the clicking of her heels making her easy to track around the room. He heard the jangling of chains and felt his heart speed up, thudding in his chest in a mixture of fear and anticipation.

               She returned to stand in front of him. “Hands,” she commanded, and he presented them to her, balled into fists with his wrists pressed together. She slipped heavy, well-padded leather cuffs around them, the weight satisfying on his wrists, and clipped a chain to the center.

               “Stand,” she said, and he complied, still holding his hands out in front of him. She moved around him, first dragging the chair off to the side, then somehow feeding the chain through one of the rings on the ceiling above him. The rasp of metal on metal sent a shiver up Steve’s back, and he felt his cock throb in protest inside the confines of the shorts.

               The sound continued as Evana drew on the chain, lifting Steve’s arms higher and higher over his head until he was completely stretched out, the balls of his feet just barely planted on the floor and his arms fully extended over his head. His muscles strained at the position, bunching and relaxing in an attempt to relieve the stress on his body.

               There was more jangling behind him, presumably as Evana affixed the chain in place, then clicking as she approached him again. She hummed in appreciation as she circled him, and Steve felt heat pool low in his belly and rise high in his cheeks.

               “So well put together, as always,” Evana purred. “It makes taking you apart all the more enjoyable.” A leather-gloved hand caressed his chest, and he jumped at the unexpected contact, almost losing his balance. She laughed, a velvety sound, and pulled her hand away. “Sensitive today, are we?” she asked, and Steve felt his face burn hotter.

               “I guess I am, Mistress,” he replied, not daring to leave any of her questions unanswered.

               “Well, we’ll just have to take advantage of that,” she purred, and Steve heard her click back towards the cabinets along the wall. “What shall I start with today,” she mused, half to herself, and Steve heard the sound of her moving objects around on the metal shelves of the cabinet.

               “The crop, Mistress, if you don’t mind,” he blurted out, then instantly regretted the outburst when the sound of various objects on aluminum shelving ceased.

               There was silence for a moment, although Steve could hear his heart thudding in his chest. “Insolent,” she murmured, and there was a dragging sound as she removed something from one of the shelves. “I am disinclined to allow you to choose the method of your discipline, but I suppose I can allow it just this once.”

               “Th-thank you, Mistress,” Steve stammered, and she chuckled.

               “Of course, you are going to have to allow me some small indulgences of my own.”

               “Anything you desire, Mistress,” Steve replied, perfectly submissive. His heart rate was slowing, and he felt himself letting control of the situation slip over to Evana.

               “So soft-spoken,” she said, the words punctuated by the sound of her heels as she returned to where he was suspended. “So polite.” He felt her breath hot on his shoulder as she leaned in close to him. “So well-behaved,” she whispered in his ear, and suddenly her hand smacked his ass with a sound that echoed through the dungeon. It didn’t hurt, not through the leather shorts and superhuman musculature, but Steve still had to will himself to not jump in surprise.

               “Ooh, I could practically break my hand on that,” Evana purred, pulling away from him. “Good thing I’ve got _this_.” The crop cracked down on Steve’s back, just below the shoulder blade, and that did hurt – a sharp sting that set his hardened nerve endings alight and made him arch his back in deference to the pain.

               But it was brief, fading after just a moment, and Steve let out the breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding.

               “Shall I continue?” Evana purred, dragging the crop up his side, a tickling sensation that made Steve twitch.

               “Yes, Mistress,” he replied.

               He could hear the vicious smile in her voice. “I do hope you’re able to keep count,” she said, and brought the crop back down.

               Again and again the crop bit into Steve’s back, the stinging pain gradually building up to a steady burn that washed away every other sensation. Evana didn’t hold back in the slightest – Steve could tell from the whuff of her breath that she was using her full strength to bring the crop down on him. It’s why he kept coming back to her – she was the only one who had managed to actually make him hurt, make him feel, to take away his control and let it be known that he had no power. She was in charge, and Steve could do or say nothing to change that.

               It was exhilarating. It was exactly what he needed.

               One particularly sharp blow made him gasp aloud, mouth falling open as he arched his back. Evana paused her discipline, dragging the crop up and down his throbbing back.

               “How many was that?” she asked him, and Steve struggled to come back to his senses enough to reply.

               “Twenty-three, Mistress,” he gasped.

               “Hmmmmm,” she mused, drawing circles on his heated flesh. “Shall we make it two more, or seven?”

               “Whichever you think best, Mistress,” Steve said, and held back a whimper as she pressed the tip of the crop into his back.

               “Just two, I think,” she said. “I’m eager to move on to other things.”

               Steve heard the sound of the crop being raised, then the whistle as it was brought down, smacking against his surely already-welted back. The second and final blow was even harder, and he groaned aloud, going limp against the bonds that held his hands over his head.

               Despite the burning of his back, he felt relaxed, hanging easily in his restraints. He distantly heard Evana’s heels clicking back over to the cabinets, but the sound seemed muffled and far away. He was also dimly aware of the scent of the sweat that was beginning to form on his body, a physical reaction to the stress that did nothing but soothe him psychologically.

               He realized that Evana was in front of him again, and struggled to raise his head. “You seem to be a bit too relaxed,” she commented, and he felt something slip around his throat. “Let’s see if we can’t get you to straighten up a little.” There was a jangling sound just below his chin, and something cold and metal settled heavily into the hollow of his throat. A collar, he sorted out, with a chain attached.

               Evana gave the chain a little tug, and Steve was forced to follow the pressure of the collar, leaning forwards towards her as best he could. She laughed a little, then he felt her hands passing the cold chain over his shoulder, where it dangled down his back, a sharp contrast against the still-fiery pain the crop had left.

               She circled around him, taking the chain in hand again and pulling on it so that the collar spun around his neck. The sensation of the suede lining of the collar sliding against the fragile skin of his throat made Steve’s cock suddenly jump in his shorts, swelling to half-hardness in response to the gentle pressure on his windpipe. It surprised him a little, and he felt himself blush, though the hood and Evana’s position behind him helped to hide both his embarrassment and the reason for it from her.

               She pulled on the chain, and he was forced to arch his back, feet lifting off the rough tile of the floor until only his toes were barely touching the ground. He let his head fall back, baring his collared throat to the ceiling, and groaned.

               “There we are,” Evana purred, releasing the tension on the chain. Steve relaxed as well, although he remained as upright as possible instead of letting himself slump forward again.

               He felt Evana’s hands on his hips and had to resist the urge to jerk away, not wanting her to discover the embarrassing hard-on he was sporting. Her sessions had always been almost completely non-sexual for him, the dynamic being about power and control, and he wasn’t sure why he was reacting this way today. Whatever the reason – the collar, the particular sequence of events, or just the usual uncontrollable male hormones – he was almost entirely certain that it was not appropriate.

               Evana’s hands were relentless, and she deftly unzipped the side of his shorts and slid them down to his knees, trapping them close together and making his extended stance even more uncomfortable and precarious. He winced as his cock sprang free from the waistband, and trembled as Evana ran her gloved hands over his now-bare thighs.

               Her hands paused on his hips. “Is something wrong?” she asked.

               “I – I’m not sure, Mistress,” Steve stammered, hanging his head.

               “Tell me,” she commanded, but even under a direct order from his Mistress Steve could not get the words out, staring sightlessly down at the floor with his teeth gritted in embarrassment.

               But Evana seemed to understand anyways. “Oh,” she said softly, and Steve squirmed as one of her hands began to slide around the front of his hips. “ _Oh._ ” Her leather-gloved palm firmly gripped his cock, and he bit back a groan. “What have we _here_.”

               “I’m sorry, Mistress,” Steve choked out, fighting the urge to pull away from her touch – he was sure that any resistance would lead to punishment, and was in no hurry to anger his Mistress.

               “It’s not a problem,” she said, releasing him. “And I can make sure it doesn’t become one, either.” She clicked away, leaving him cold and hanging, his shameful half-erection seemingly in no hurry to subside despite the physical and emotional discomfort he was in.

               In a moment she was back, her hands once again caressing his cock, which jumped in her grip. With deft hands she fixed something around the base, something that exerted a firm and undeniable pressure. A cock ring, Steve deduced, and whimpered at the sudden increase of pressure as his dick swelled further in appreciation.

               “There we go,” Evana murmured, and Steve heard the dragging sound of something being lifted off the tile floor. “Are you ready?” she asked, tapping his bare ass lightly with the object – a large paddle, from the feel of it, cool against his heated skin.

               “Yes, Mistress,” he replied obediently, trying to ignore his adamant erection.

               Evana hummed. “Ready for what?” she asked, gently tapping him with the paddle again.

               Steve blinked behind the hood – this was a deviation from the usual pattern. She had never before made him beg or express in clear terms during the session what he wanted, though his research into the world of BDSM had led him to understand that this was not necessarily an uncommon thing.

               He struggled to gather his thoughts. “I’m ready for you to hit me, Mistress,” he said, as perfectly polite as could be.

               She hummed again. “Say please,” she told him, rubbing the paddle down along the backs of his thighs, taunting him with its weight.

               Steve felt his blush, which seemed to be a permanent fixture on his face at this point, deepen. “P-please hit me, Mistress,” he choked out. “Please.”

               “Very good,” she said, and swung the paddle down on his ass with a resounding smack.

               Steve choked down a howl and arched his back to the limit, his cock jumping despite its restraint. She struck him again, and again, the thuds blending together into one continuous burn, and Steve felt himself start to drift, only to be pulled back to reality by the sharp pressure of the collar around his throat.

               “Straighten up,” Evana commanded, and Steve complied, arching his back and presenting his bare ass to her as best he could. She responded with a solid smack that made him lose his balance, feet slipping out from under him. He grunted as his whole weight was suddenly held up only by the cuffs around his wrists, the pain in his shoulders almost as sharp as the pain of the crop. Evana paused her ministrations and allowed him to regain his footing, tapping the paddle lightly against something as she waited.

               When his feet were finally under him again she approached him slowly, dragging one hand up the outside of his thigh, over his hip, and along his ribs. He shivered, the touch both threatening and arousing, and her hand finally settled on his chest.

               She leaned in close, her chin brushing his shoulder, and he could feel the sweep of long hair against his neck between the collar and the bottom edge of the hood. She pressed her cheek against the leather covering his ear and whispered, “I know who you are, you know.”

               Steve felt his breath catch in his throat.

               “Not the first time, no, and I only had suspicions the second.” Evana’s voice was husky, taking on a tone that he had not heard from her before. “Your face may be the famous part of you – the part that everybody knows, at least – but this body…” She ran her hand slowly down his chest and across the washboard of his abs. “This body has its fair share of fans too, you know. And it’s plenty recognizable to those who know how to look.”

               Steve was struggling to breathe, the precariousness of his position now expanded far beyond the physical. His identity was compromised. There was now the possibility of an irremovable tarnish on his reputation. Everything he stood for was now at risk.

               “So tell me,” Evana said, her wandering hand descending past his hips to grip his cock, “why does Captain America feel the need to indulge in something that goes so strongly against his image?”

               Steve gasped at the sensation of her hand on his dick and tried to squirm away, but her voice held him in place.

               “I am your Mistress, Mr Rogers, and you will answer me.”

               Steve stopped wriggling.

               “Answer me.”

               “I’m pretty sure this is entirely inappropriate,” he managed to squeak out.

               “Do you wish for me to stop?” she asked, and gave his cock one firm, solid stroke from tip to root.

               Steve threw his head back with a ragged, almost pained gasp that faded into a moan as she stroked him again.

               “Do you want me to stop?” she asked him again.

               “No, no. Don’t stop,” he begged, struggling to shape the words through the pleasure that was clouding his mind. “Don’t stop, Mistress.”

               But she did, and he whimpered pathetically and attempted to buck his hips into her hand.

               “Such a pretty cock,” she murmured into his bare shoulder. “I wonder how many people have gotten to see it like this?” Her lips just grazed his skin, and he swore that she was grinning. “Not many, I’d imagine. An icon of virtue like yourself…I imagine that you have disrobed before just a select few, if any.”

               There was a loud clatter, presumably from her dropping the paddle, and her other hand cracked against the already-tender underside of his ass.

               “If you want me to continue,” she purred, pressing her mouth back against his ear, “then you’re going to have to explain yourself.” The hand on his ass squeezed, the tips of her gloved fingers sinking into the tender flesh, and he whimpered. “Why do you, the paragon of America, feel the need to give yourself over into my hands? Why does the golden boy, the praised warrior, the perfect soldier, turn to something that many consider to be depraved?”

               “Control,” he gasped out, and her hand rewardingly stroked him. He was desperate, the fire low in his belly drowning out the burn of his back and ass. He fumbled for words, struggling to articulate his reasoning through his arousal, every stroke of her hand lighting him up from head to toe.

               “Every day – I’m expected to be in charge,” he panted. “Gotta be – _Captain_ America, gotta have a – handle on everything.” Evana was pressing the full length of her body up against him now, and he could probably have counted the clasps on her corset if he hadn’t been so distracted by his cock in her fist.

               “But it – wasn’t always like that. Back in the Army, back when I was just – Steve Rogers, and nothing else. I – took orders. I didn’t have to think. I didn’t have control and I _liked_ it that way.” Evana stroked him faster, twisting her wrist in a way that made him moan.

               “But then, we were fighting bigger things, and I – had to be in charge, because I was the biggest thing they had. And I was – scared. Not of the things we were fighting, but of the power. The control.” His moans were becoming ragged and desperate. “I was in charge – of people’s lives. People got hurt. People _died_. And I – was responsible – for that.” She squeezed his dick and he whined, long and low.

               “So sometimes – sometimes I just need to give up that control. But I couldn’t think of a way to – do that – without hurting more people. And then I learned – about this. Where I could – put myself into someone else’s hands – and be punished for all the people I have let be hurt – as well.

               “And it _works_ ,” he moaned, pathetic, desperate. “When I don’t have control, _nothing matters._ And I need that – so much. It’s the only thing that keeps me – sane.”

               Evana hummed in his ear, speeding up the pace of her strokes, and Steve pushed his hips desperately into her hand with a whimper, the pressure of the cock ring becoming almost unbearable as it held back his release. He heard a faint jingling, and there was a sharp pressure on his throat as she pulled on the chain attached to the collar, forcing his head back, forcing him to bare his throat and surrender.

               He was close, so close, all embarrassment washed from him now, given over entirely into Evana’s hands. He was nothing – not Captain America, not Steve Rogers, not anything – just a body that was burning like the sun and needing, needing, needing release.

               And then Evana’s hand cracked across his ass one last time and he choked on a gasp as he came, hearing the shameful sound of his release spattering across the tile floor over the racing drumbeat of his heart.

               Evana peeled herself off of his back, and he hung there, numb, for a period of time that he could not quantify. It felt like every fragment of stress that had been building up inside him had been extracted; like he’d been fighting the effects of a deadly poison for years and was suddenly cured.

               “I’m letting you down, Steve,” came Evana’s voice from somewhere behind him, soft and distant, and a jangling of chains precluded the release of the pressure on his arms. Slowly, he sank to the floor, ending up on his knees with his still-bound hands resting in front of him, back gently bowed forward, hooded head hanging low.

               There was the clicking of heels and a warmth against his back as Evana knelt behind him, her hands rubbing gentle circles into his aching shoulders and back. She stretched herself around his broad torso and undid the cuffs around his wrists, tossing them and the chain they were attached to off to the side with a clatter. She slipped her arms underneath his and lifted, gently coaxing him into a sitting position with his legs out straight in front of him and his bare back resting against her corseted chest. Only then did she unsnap the cock ring and help him wriggle his shorts back up his hips.

               “Thank you, Mistress,” Steve said, his voice hoarse, and Evana chuckled, gently massaging his shoulders.

               “Of course, Steve. It is my job, after all.” She helped him to his feet – his legs were still shaky, but he was stable enough to stand – and slipped her hands around his neck to unfasten the collar.

               “And don’t forget, your secret is safe with me,” she said, and he could hear the self-satisfied smile in her voice. “We understand that your reputation must be protected at all costs, and will do our part to keep it safe. We’re only here to help, after all.”

               “It was…very helpful,” Steve rasped. “Thank you. Again.”

               Her hand caressed his cheek, the sensation dulled by the leather of the hood. “Take care, Steve. And do try to book your next appointment as soon as possible – my schedule is quite full for the next few weeks.” With that, her heels clicked away, and the sound of the door opening and closing marked her exit.

               Steve stood where he was for a couple of minutes, breathing deeply, rolling his shoulders in an attempt to stretch out the strain of being suspended. Eventually, he slipped the hood off of his face, blinking at the sudden light of the dungeon that now seemed impossibly bright to his sensitive eyes.

               He padded out of the dungeon, through the receiving room, and back into the bathroom, where he slowly shed the leather shorts and climbed back into the shower to wash the sweat from his skin – a cold shower, this time, as hot water was agony on his tender back and buttocks. He washed his hair, too, as the hood had made a mess of it.

               He gingerly clambered out of the shower, toweled off, and began to redress in the clothes he had arrived in – boxers, jeans, T-shirt, hoodie, socks, sneakers. He flipped up the hood on his jacket and donned his aviators before exiting room eleven, heading down the hall, and nodding to the blonde girl at the front desk as he left.

               The afternoon sun was gentle on his face as he walked down the street. He smiled.

               It was three weeks before he felt the need to call Evana again.

              

**Author's Note:**

> Like I said, I don't know much about BDSM and it shows ugh. 
> 
> I know the current popular Steve Rogers headcanon is "he grew up in New York and was in the army obviously he knows about sex and swears and stuff!" but let us not forget that this is a man that legitimately thought "fondue" was a euphemism for sex and had literally never even danced with a girl. The twenty-first century probably gave him a serious education (thank you, internet) but morally upright, sexually uncomfortable Steve is my weakness and always will be.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
